


Teaching Discipline

by The_Escaped



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen, Teacher-Student Relationship, and I mean every single teacher, not in a sexual way - Freeform, open to prompts, these children were not hugged enough and that needs to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:46:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9597626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Escaped/pseuds/The_Escaped
Summary: It takes a village to raise a child. How many are needed for four?One-shots surrounding the relationships between the adults and children of Discipline Cottage.





	1. Crumbs in the Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of the Circle of Magic, nor any other part work of Tamora Pierce.
> 
> Timeline: Between chapters 3 and 4 of Sandry's Book
> 
> ~
> 
> ‘He’d crept in at night, in the days after his arrival, when a full belly was still cause for excitement and he’d filled it as often as he could’ –Briar, Tris’s Book
> 
> “When I got the wheezes, what the healers call asthma, I couldn’t work as a tumbler anymore. The only place I could afford to live was the Mire.” –Lark, Briar’s Book

Rosie called it making her rounds, what Lark did on nights when memories kept her up. She didn’t make noise. Not with the dreams she woke from. Slipping off her shoes to let bare toes kiss the wood, Lark would make her way through Discipline, touching the knick-knacks that had accumulated on the hearth, the table, the dishes stacked away for morning. Lark had built up a life in this house, in a way she'd never done as a traveling performer. She would feel that life under her fingers until the pattern of the movement reminded her that this was hers; and no one would ever be able to take it away.

Rosie didn’t understand this side of her, though she tried. Everything in her life had possessed some form of stability. Not like the Mire.

The Mire was a cold place, even when the sun stuck high and hot in the summer and the smell thickened into a fog, cold in the bone and the heart. It was a never-enough place ( _never enough food to stop the gnawing turning her stomach inside out, never enough places to hide, never enough kindness, never enough air to get through her damaged lungs._ ) Small wonder Lark still woke up with sweats, the smell of mold in her nose and the feeling that someone was behind her. 

At least, that’s what she told herself as she breathed in the meditation pattern, loosening her throat again. Rosie brewed medicine that made the wheezes hide – _asthma, not wheezes, she knew how to talk like an educated person now_ \- but Lark didn’t want to take it so late at night. Right now, the worry knotting inside her was in a position slightly lower than her airway.

After nearly a year in the Mire, coming to Winding Circle had been better than a dream come true. Meeting Rosie was even better. And yet… it was nights like these, when she could feel the hunger eating her insides through last night’s meal, that Lark couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t last. Because anyone who’d lived in the Mire knew that it never lasted, nothing good ever lasted as long as this had been allowed to go on.

This time though she couldn’t make the rounds in the whole house; Niko had brought trouble home to Winding Circle. Two new visitors, both children, to Rosie’s dismay. The boy had locked his door before he’d even had both feet over the threshold. The other one, a former Trader named Daja, had possessed better manners, though it was clear she didn’t think much of living with _kaqs_.

  


There were crumbs in the kitchen. Someone had been at the breadbox. A shadow flickered by the door as she turned, Lark made sure not to look directly at it as she turned away.

“That would taste better with milk, I think.”

The boy, hidden in the shadows, choked on the roll. Coughing as he lurched to his feet, he lunged away from Lark, who was blocking his escape route. 

He watched her warily. A bruise stood out on his golden brown cheek from the fight that had landed him at Discipline. Lark would have to get Rosie to look at that in the morning, if she could convince the boy to stay in the room long enough with the sharp-tongued woman. A thin chest heaved as he waited for her to make a move towards him. This boy, this Briar Moss, was half-starved, and ready to bolt, despite weeks on the road with Niko. Inside Lark cried that a boy so young had known so many never-enoughs; on the outside she smiled at him, drawing out a look of incredulity.

“Milk, I said. Would you like some?” He blinked. Lark had startled him. Good, she hoped that meant he wouldn’t use the knife he’d palmed while she’d looked him over. “Then come and sit at the table. I think I’ll have some too.” 

And, turning away as if she didn't care one way or another, she made a show of going over to fetch the pitcher from the coldbox. Behind her, she heard the tentative scrape of a chair and smiled where he couldn't see it. On her way back to the table, she fetched two more rolls to chase away the sharp angles on his body. He’d grown up in a place every bit as hard as the Mire, and she intended that he know that that nightmare was over. 

Mila knew Lark was starting to. 


	2. Plague Talks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Briar's Book
> 
> ~
> 
> "Sandry felt dizzy. Any disease that showed pockmarks reminded her of the epidemic that had killed her family." –Sandry, Briar’s Book p.25

“Bundle up everything you’ll need for two or three days,” Frostpine said to his apprentice. Daja looked so small compared to him, not matter how much taller than Sandry she was. Sandry, startled out of her prayers, leaned closer to listen. “I can’t turn out enough boxes on my own. We’re going to work until we drop, I’m afraid.”

Sandry’s heart stopped. “She’s leaving too?” Frostpine and Lark stopped talking to stare at her. Sandry barely even noticed. Daja had already run for her room, right past without a word. She had to pass Rosethorn and Briar’s rooms. No one would come out to see who was making all the noise; because they were trapped in the Mire, in airless rooms with an unknown disease that would scar and kill them. Her family was leaving again, and she would be all alone. “ _Three_ of us gone?”

Frostpine frowned. "Three?" 

Daja said something, but she was too worked up to hear it. In her mind’s eye she could see Briar and Rosethorn. As she watched, blue pockmarks that looked much more like smallpox bloomed on their faces like horrifying flowers. Their eyes dulled; they were lost in the dark. 

Her stomach rolled. Sandry fled to her room. The lamp in the corner, reduced to a standby now that she had the magic light from the others, rattled as she passed. The shadows in her mind stretched out hungry fingers, eager to play now that half her family was gone.

“Can I come in?” Sandry wiped her eyes hastily and whipped around. Frostpine leaned on her door, arms crossed. 

Briar would have laughed at her if he was home and called her a skirt. But the street-savvy boy who followed her into fights and was teaching her to balance a knife on her finger when the grownups were out wasn’t here. He was ‘cribbed up’ in Urda’s Womb with the sick, and no matter how much he hid it he was scared. That _scared her_.

“Sandry.”

Frostpine’s voice was gentle. His eyes were full of pity. Everyone knew why she was in Discipline. Her bloodline preceded her even in the walls of Winding Circle. Everyone knew this would make the night-horrors come back when they had no right to. She stared at him without comprehension. 

He was handling her inattention much better than Rosethorn would have. The thought was enough to make tears spring to her eyes again, but Frostpine kindly didn’t notice. He was examining the Tree of Life tapestry Lark had helped her to weave. “I was a novice with Rosethorn you know. Crane, her, and I knew each other before the two went off to Lightsbridge for training.” 

She sniffed and looked at him. As far as comforting went, this was more confused than anything else. Frostpine continued, “The two of them and four others created something called essences. The essences have helped cure diseases faster than they ever have been before. Rosethorn and Crane together have worked on finding cures and updating for the last dozen or so outbreaks of sickness, practically since they were a little older than you.”

Sandry wiped her eyes. She had lost so many people to disease, or to the anarchy that followed them. She couldn’t bear to lose any more.

“I’m not saying it won’t be hard, but they’ll get through it. Do you think a disease would dare show its face to Rosethorn?” That pulled a reluctant smile from her. “And they’ll have our help. Winding Circle is always the first to begin the research to find a cure. Crane might be hard to deal with, but he’s one of the best at what he does. And Daja, Kirel, and I will bring them one step closer. Alright?”

Nothing was ever alright in a plague; but this was probably the closest she would get. She tried to smile at him. The magic she could see off Frostpine was like a strong beacon: it reassured her when she thought of it helping to cure whatever pox this was. The reminder of Rosethorn’s strength went even further to calming her down.

They rode off not long after that. Sandry watched them go, waving as hard as she could. Plague wouldn’t strip her people away a second time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because under all that soot, I think Frostpine is just an old softie at heart. However, he is also going to be the hardest for me to write because I feel like I know less about him than any of the other teachers. Please let me know what you thought so I can find out how to improve my portrayal of him. This scene is intended to take place just after they get the news of the quarantine in Briar’s Book. On page 50 there is a moment when Daja goes to get her things, and when she comes back Frostpine is talking to Sandry, so this scene and some of the dialogue at the beginning are taken from that. 
> 
> Sorry about accidentally posting three times, I'll try to figure out how to fix that today! Thank you for your comments, even the ones that got deleted! You guys are the best!


	3. Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Directly after the forest fire in Daja’s Book but before the ending of the book.
> 
> ~
> 
> "I'm taking her to Winding Circle Temple," He told the Council, his dark eyes sparkling with anger, "They'll appreciate her, with or without Trader luck!" -Niko, Sandry's Book
> 
> "I guess it's silly for a trangshi to bathe, since uncleanness is more than skin deep."-Daja, Daja's Book

The ship from Capchen took longer than he had expected to make port in Emelan. Niko felt a brush of guilt as he left the scowling redheaded girl to the more-capable hands of Winding Circle. His sight was fogged with visions of a ship, Trader-make, battered by wind. One figure, big but a child nonetheless, was thrown against the side of the failing ship. She fell against the closed hatch. As the ship bucked and tossed she gripped the wood with strong hands, and when the hatch door went flying she went with it. 

Later- almost too late- he stood with the girl, who wasn’t even close to recovered, and couldn’t stand in the way of her people casting her out. Perhaps it came too close on the end of the Trisana girl’s story, but his words were just sharp enough that the _mimander_ was obliged to explain.

“Her fate is to be _trangshi_.” He insisted, a thin voice under layers of _qunsuanen_ yellow. Niko was furious on behalf of the girl he wouldn’t know until much later.

  


It was Daja herself who saw it, months after the fact, though she would have more cause to remember the words than he. As he took his shift by her bed- they were taking it in turns so Frostpine would get some rest- she smiled weakly at him and waved that peculiarly brass-clad hand. 

“’Lo Niko.” Her voice was a rasp. Even a smith-mage’s magic and Rosethorn’s tonics combined couldn’t erase the damage of a forest fire in a night. The girl’s new staff was propped against the wall by her bed.

“Rosethorn told you not to speak until her medicine has had time to work.” 

Daja made a face. “I’m fine.”

“You inhaled a lot of smoke, and furthermore you are seriously depleted of magic.”

“I’m a smith-mage. I’ll be inhaling smoke for the rest of my life." That scared Lark, though she tried to hide it from the child. She was coordinating with Frostpine to make sure that the girl's lungs wouldn't be affected. Niko wondered if Daja knew the effort that the two mages of Discipline had put into raising her so that her religion and culture would be respected. He wondered if knowing would effect the decision she had to make. "And I can work on my project without using my magic.” She made a face at the expression he made at this distinction. Niko was not looking forward to dealing with the four of them when puberty struck at _all_

“There will be time for talking later. If you need to, you can ask one of the others to speak for you. For now rest.” Niko would give a lot to be able to rest. But there was the injured to deal with, and the Lady Inoulia to contend with, and Duke Vedris wanted to know when the snows would come. He would probably doze off in this chair if he wasn’t careful.

At least Daja was drifting off as well. Her eyes were fluttering closed as she whispered, “The _mimander_ was right after all.”

“What?”

“The one at my trial. Remember? You told them to give me a second chance and the _mimander_ said it was my fate to be _trangshi_. He didn’t say forever.” With that she fell deeply asleep as Rosethorn’s medicines took hold.

Her pronouncement was met with startled silence from the other three occupants of the room (Briar was currently hiding under Tris’ bed, being the only one of the children who didn’t share the room. Niko decided he would let him get away with it this time. It was Rosethorn’s turn next anyway- she would set him straight.)

“Niko?” Sandry whispered so as not to wake her. 

“I’m not going to give her secrets away, Sandry. You may ask her when she is feeling better.”

Tris spoke next. “She’s going to leave, isn’t she? She’s going to choose them over us.” Niko saw Sandry open her mouth to deny it and stop, unsure. Tris’s chin trembled. “Fine. Not like I should expect anything different,” snapped the redhead, and she pulled the blanket over her head. 

Niko was fairly sure that Sandry spoke through their bond then, or Briar. He was glad for it, for he wasn’t sure what he would have said. 

“I hope Koma and Oti see how valued you are here,” he murmured to the sleeping apprentice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a completely unfathomable reason, it’s harder than I expected to write Daja. Please let me know if I messed up her characterization, because I love her but she's the hardest one for me to write.
> 
> It's cringe-worthy to see just how bad my old writing is. I tried to make it a little better by adding some more about cultural differences in adoptive families, but I don't think I was able to salvage it.


	4. Cough Drops (Rosethorn-Tris)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Midway through Daja's Book, when the smoke from the grass fires starts affecting Tris. 
> 
> ~
> 
> ‘Lark and Rosethorn were good friends, and Briar loved his teacher, but Tris couldn’t begin to guess why. Was this the face of Rosethorn that Lark and Briar saw, when no one else was looking?’ –Tris, Tris’s Book

Lark had always wanted children, the Green Man alone knew why, but she liked them. Rosethorn was glad their situation prevented having any. She was no good for kids; that much was obvious. As Crane was fond of pointing out, she was barely fit to be around adults. 

So when Tris trailed Rosethorn up to her room at Gold Ridge, dragged by the wrist, neither of them was happy with it. The sounds of coughing pursued the girl, echoing in the stairwell. “I’m fine!” she insisted between coughs, red-faced with embarrassment. 

“Of course,” Rosethorn said dryly, “You’re so fine you’ve nearly lost your voice.”

Her face got, if possible, redder. Tris tried unsuccessfully to tug her hand out of Rosethorn’s grip. “I don’t need your help!”

Rosethorn stopped walking then and looked her in the eye. The girl swallowed and looked away first, and Rosethorn probably shouldn't feel gratified by that, but by now the boy had realized he didn't need to be afraid of her, so this was what she was left with. Her free hand played with the gauze scarf Lark had given her to fight the smoke. Mila, Rosethorn wasn’t cut out for this.

Only when she was satisfied the girl wasn't going to go off on her own in some fit of pique did Rosethorn let her go. Tris looked at her feet as Rosethorn searched through the stock of medicines she’d brought from Winding Circle. Rosethorn let the girl stew as she thought. As a rule the dedicate avoided Tris. It had nothing to do with her magic. Tris was Rosethorn, without a Lark to soften her words. Even Rosethorn acknowledged that two of her was too many. Rosethorn had chosen her name with care; it was a warning. She went around pricking people too easily to be in charge of a house of children. And then there was the matter of her own father...Rosethorn wasn't equipped to deal with this. She didn't have the experience. 

Besides, if her home life had been sufficiently bad that Niko saw fit to warn her to be gentle, then Rosethorn figured she should talk to the girl as little as possible.

Lark had told her that Tris had finally unpacked her suitcases shortly after the pirate attack, after stalling through introductions and lessons and earthquakes. Rosethorn was glad; no one should have to live as a guest in Discipline Cottage. 

As Rosethorn found the right tonic the girl’s bird sailed through the window and settled on her shoulder. Tris yelped as he pecked her and tried to fend off his beak. “Drink this.” The girl was so distracted she didn’t fight the cup that was thrust into her hand. 

She also didn’t drink it. Instead, the child looked at her tonic as if it might bite her.

“I didn’t make it to sit in your hand.” Rosethorn said testily. The grass fires on the plains were itching her magic. It made her already short temper fray all the more.

Tris squinted up at her, the same way she had watched months ago when Rosethorn had explained bird care to her. Her hair was cropped nearly to her ears. Cut short as it was, she might have been mistaken for Rosethorn’s daughter. 

Rosethorn didn’t know what to think about that. “I don’t see you drinking,” she prodded instead. That was all a rose thorn could do, prod and poke and prick, until she pushed everyone away. And Tris still didn't drink, only stared from the cup to Rosethorn's face like she was searching for something. "So help me- what is it now?" 

She fiddled with the cup then, not meeting her eyes. “I saw some medicine like this at a marketplace once,” she said quietly, “It was worth a silver astrel.” 

Ah. The Chandlers’ coin-pinching habits. Lark was turning positively tetchy on the subject of Tris’s family, and Tris’s old place in it. Lark got territorial about her charges. But Tris was looking at the vial like it was proof of something. Money talked to merchant families. Rosethorn had a good idea of what it was saying to Trisana Chandler.

“I’m sure it was overpriced.” Rosethorn said gruffly. “Besides that, I made it. It didn’t cost me anything.”

Tris swallowed again. “Right," she said quickly, almost relieved, and shockingly the girl put it to her lips and drank, then promptly screwed up her face. Rosethorn smiled crookedly and poured her a cup of water to wash away the taste. 

And then the girl was just standing there in the center of her room, as out-of-place as when she had first come to Discipline. It called back in Rosethorn's memory, to when Lark had only just arrived at Winding Circle, older and ill-fitting among the other initiates, in clothes that were worn threadbare.

It didn't seem like a good thing, how easily Rosethorn could find pieces of herself and Lark in this prickly, defensive girl who wouldn't even unpack her suitcase until she'd almost died twice. Rosethorn busied herself with her mage-kit, not looking at the girl whose recent loss of magic was even more ill-fitting than the clothes the Chandlers had left to her.

“There’s no need for you to be sick. I brew medicines, for Green Man’s sake. If your cough doesn’t go away by tomorrow you’ll come back up here and I’ll give you another dose. Is that understood?”

"But the cost," the foolish child protested, like that mattered more. Mila of the Grain, how stubborn could this child be? 

"The cost is unimportant." Rosethorn cut her off. Tris stopped short, highly offended. Rosethorn couldn't find the patience to soften her words, which was the point; how could anyone have been so foolish as to entrust her with children? "Your health is more important than the cost of a cough syrup. Do you understand?"

From the bleak, blank expression on her face, Tris did not.

And now Rosethorn wanted to join Lark and hunt down these Capchen Chandlers, who clearly knew less about child-rearing than even her. Mila of the Grain, there should be some kind of permit for having children. Rosethorn might not be able to qualify for it, but at least neither would the people who'd raised this child.

"I have a responsibility to see to your well-being," Rosethorn told her quietly, trying to have more care with her words, "You are my charge. If you are sick, or hurt, Lark and I take care of it. It isn't up for debate."

Slowly, the girl nodded, still blank-faced. Rosethorn shooed her out then, before either of them said something completely maudlin.

Her cough didn't get better, but Tris stopped complaining about taking the medicine. Rosethorn would take the victories she could. It wasn't like anyone else was much better off; it seemed like the smoke was poisoning everyone. Rosethorn made sure the children kept brewing burn salve, and made sure there was a large supply of cough syrup and Lark's medication.

But later, when Rosethorn was pestering Niko to drink some medicine, Tris spoke up.

"It's not bad," she said, just a touch to earnest, "It tastes like- like mangoes."

Rosethorn quirked an eyebrow at her as Niko bolted the syrup and turned scarlet. Tentatively, Tris smiled at her.

Maybe, just maybe, this child-rearing thing wasn’t so hard as she’d thought. Maybe Rosethorn could do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really fun to transfer this over to Ao3, because I get to see what I was doing my freshman year at college. I was so young, and full of hope...
> 
> And I also have fun rewriting half of it because it's so terrible. Thanks for the kudos and reviews I've gotten for this, it really means a lot.
> 
> I used some dialogue from the actual book at the end. I'm not sure if I need an extra disclaimer for that, but that little bit isn't mine.


	5. Substitute Teacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Before epilogue of Briar's Book
> 
> ~
> 
> “Rosethorn is a great mage. She is one of the most powerful with regard to medicines and plants in all of the Pebbled Sea and its environs.”  
> “He says ‘one of’ because he’s another,” –Crane and Rosethorn, Briar’s Book
> 
> ‘Never Briar. Or Frostine. Or Tris’ teacher Niko, or our sometimes teacher Crane,”-Daja Will of the Empress.

Crane didn’t know which god hated him, but he had a feeling it might be Mila. How else had be ended up sitting in the middle of that woman’s garden (ruining his robes, no doubt), with her boy squinting at him suspiciously?

“I don’t see why you gotta give me lessons,” he complained again.

“You don’t see why I _have to_ give you lessons,” Crane corrected, “And you must, surely. So long as your teacher is indisposed, you remain in need of a teacher. I-unfortunately- am the best replacement. Do not think that I enjoy this any more than you do.”

The boy scowled at him. “Rosethorn’s gonna get better soon! Then she can teach me herself.”

“Acaia witness it, I certainly hope so. Then you’ll no longer be my problem. With any luck she could teach you better grammar as well. Now, if we may begin to work-” He gestured at the garden.

“Rosethorn don’t want you lookin’ at her cinnamon!” The boy called out at once.

Crane had to refrain from banging his head against the well. “If I wish to know how to grow it _poorly_ , I will look at her cinnamon. As it is, I don’t. Now I know you are able to speak better than that, so please do so.”

His response was a merciless grin. 

“Not at the tomatoes neither!”

“Very well!” he snapped at last, “We’ll conduct your lesson somewhere else!”

The boy lingered at Rosethorn’s door as they entered Discipline. Crane joined him-just in case, not that he was worried about the woman- and raised an eyebrow at her expression. The woman was relearning how to speak, and wasn’t able to tell him- either of them- off. A pointed finger was the only answer the boy got. 

“Nice try,” he told the boy as he slouched back, “Now where is your room?”

“But-”

“Now!”

That banging-his-head-against-a-wall idea was looking better with each step. 

His room was neat, or at least neater than he’d expected. The pile of blankets at least didn’t resemble a nest so much, even if they weren’t on a proper bed. No knives scattered about the floor.

The boy had immediately crossed over to his window, where a shelf protruded. He grabbed a plant and cradled it defensively against his chest. “This is mine now!” he warned, “Don’t think you can nick it!”

The sense the _shakkan_ exuded was the equivalent of a snicker. Crane glared at it. Traitor. 

“I have no interest in your tree, even if it began as mine,” Crane reminded him, “I have plenty of my own _shakkans_. Now if we can begin on your lesson…”

It was not to be. Crane had seen the boy work during the Blue Pox. He'd been reluctantly impressed by the steadiness of his hands, and by the boy's focus. Even by the boy's clear loyalty to his teacher, even though it had been plain to see how terrified Rosethorn had been by it afterwards. 

But now the focus Briar had shown during the plague was completely gone. He fidgeted, his mind wandered. If Crane had not witnessed it with his own eyes, he would never have believed the boy would be capable of learning anything.

“What is wrong with you today-” Crane began, patience finally gone, when they were interrupted by a long, wracking cough. The boy was out the door in an instant. By the time Crane crossed the room, he was only able to see the boy’s foot vanish into Rosethorn’s room. Her student was at her side, trying to give her a cup of willowbark tea.

The look she gave him was murder. 

“Lark said you gotta drink it,” he insisted stubbornly. A hand darted up and tugged his ear. “Ow! Have to! You _have to_ drink it.”

“I should have thought of that,” remarked Crane lightly, “If I had known it would work, I would have tried it already.” The gesture she made at him was one they had learned in the hallowed halls of Lightsbridge, and was entirely inappropriate to use in front to a child. “I will not lower myself to vulgarity in order to reciprocate,” he told her. 

Briar scowled. “I don’t see why I g- _have to_ have lessons while you’re resting. I think I deserve a rest too.”

“You have had more than enough time to recover from your escapade into the land of the dead,” Crane supplied for Rosethorn, “In the meantime, you should do as your teacher commands and allow me to instruct you.”

He shuffled his feet, not even bothering to whine now that Rosethorn was in the room. His eyes darted to the figure in the bed. 

Rosethorn. He was scared to leave Rosethorn alone. Crane could hardly blame him. The last time she had left she had nearly not returned.

Well. There was something he could do for that. And if it meant tormenting his rival a little more while she was so delightfully incapacitated, all the better.

“As you are clearly incapable of focusing without your primary teacher in the room,” Briar scowled as he began speaking again, irritated by his recriminating tone. Crane paid him no mind as he continued, “I have no choice but to insist that we carry on your lesson here, where she can keep an eye on you.”

_And I can keep an eye on her too_ , he thought to himself. They both stared at him. 

Then Briar grinned, the antithesis to his teacher’s dirty look. “I’ll fetch the papers then!” he said, and bolted from the room before Crane could change his mind. 

Rosethorn glowered at him. Like her charge, she was not tricked. _I will make you pay for this_ , her eyes promised. He lifted an eyebrow in reply. 

Briar reentered the room just in time to see his teacher clobber the Dedicate Initiate of the Air Temple with a pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my favorite thing about Crane is his interactions with all the other characters at Winding Circle. It's fun to write him too, because I try to elevate the vocabulary he uses.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave some kudos or let me know if you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I started writing this my freshman year at college and I thought I'd import it from fanfic.net since I rely more on Ao3 these days. I'd really like to improve my writing, so please let me know what I can do to improve, especially with the characters. 
> 
> This fic is an examination of the relationships between the circle and their teachers. If there is any prompts anyone would like to see, I'd be honored to try it!


End file.
